


The Judgement Of Methusaleh (1902)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [199]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Attempted Murder, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gay Sex, Illnesses, Johnlock - Freeform, Judiciary, London, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Poisoning, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 05:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11753484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Watson has to stand and watch a man die - because that man is a killer.





	The Judgement Of Methusaleh (1902)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ginger_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_angel/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'old Abrahams, who is in terror of his life'.

I have often observed, over the many cases that Sherlock and I undertook together, that he frequently crossed (and sometimes charged at full-speed) into the grey area between justice and the law. I know that to many people they are one and the same thing, but like all tools, the law can be a blunt instrument when what is often needed is a more delicate touch. Sherlock often effected solutions that were close to or even occasionally illegal, but which always better served the interests of those involved - well, the innocent parties at least! Yes, there was often a significant difference between justice and the law. In this case, the difference was a dying man, dying right there before my eyes. 

_And I let him die._

+~+~+

Despite his oft-professed happiness at his life with me, I often silently wondered if Sherlock ever regretted not having left someone to carry on his name, his son with Miss Amelia Everett (later Lady Dundas) having died young and at the time unbeknownst to him. I of course had Ben – Master Benjamin Braeden, now entering his seventeenth year, whose mother Lisa sent me regular reports of his excellent progress towards adulthood; thanks to my increasing literary success the boy would come into a handsome sum when he attained his majority. Neither I nor the man I loved had known the joys and terrors of raising a family, and I wondered if he missed that.

Shortly after our return from Berwickshire and Sherlock's solving of the Stewart Case (no, Sammy was still not talking to me after the Parcel Incident), we had a family drama to cope with, one which would have uncanny echoes of what the whole country would go through the very next year. Mr. Samandriel Holmes, cousin and lover of Sherlock's brother Lucius, was suddenly taken very ill, and the doctors diagnosed appendicitis. This was at the time an often deadly affliction, and I would always remember the broken look on Mr. Lucius Holmes' tear-stained face, as he confronted the prospect of losing the love of his life.

I was exceptionally fortunate that my beknighted friend Sir Peter Greenwood was an acquaintance of one of the new king's doctors, a Mr. Frederick Treves, who was one of the few men capable of treating this affliction. I will not go into details as I do not wish readers to unexpectedly part with any recent meals, but the process was very complicated and carried a high risk of failure. Fortunately for us all, it worked, and young Alfie – who, I must say here, was one of the gentlest and kindest men that I ever met – made a full recovery. I like to think (although of course I have no evidence to back this up) that our friend's operation provided useful experience for the second such operation that Doctor Treves performed the following summer on another rather more important patient.

+~+~+

During that autumn I had worked to complete our treasure-hunt adventure set in the Black Country (“The Six Napoleons”), which was published in the “Strand” magazine in the weeks leading up to Christmas. That was a busy time of the year, what with the early onset of winter illnesses, and despite my no longer having any regular days there, I was at the surgery rather more than I had expected. So I was glad for Sherlock to have a potential client, especially as it also it rescued me from a struggle with a Christmas tree in which I was, if I was being honest, coming a poor second. The elderly lady who requested our attentions was poorly dressed but quite presentable, by name of Mrs. Mary Minton.

“I know I shouldn't be troubling Gentlemen such as your good selves”, she babbled, “but I have been so worried that....”

“Tea.”

She looked at Sherlock in surprise, her flow of verbiage temporarily stemmed. 

“Sir?” she asked. 

“Madam, you are quite clearly a lady of sense.” He held up his hand when she looked poised to object, or worse, start off again. “Your clothes are of a basic standard, yet the repairs in them are quite precise, the stitching being of the _highest_ quality. You can afford a pair of spectacles, even though you are not wearing them today; the bridge-marks on your nose are quite distinctive, and that tells me you manage your money successfully, as such visual aids are not cheap. I take it that an occurrence in your job as a cleaner has caused you some distress?”

She stared at him in amazement (at least it made a change from simpering!).

“Scuffed shoes”, I explained, gesturing to her footwear. “People who clean for a living make distinctive marks when they kneel down.”

“If the doctor is finished letting daylight in upon my magic”, Sherlock smiled, “you will take your tea, sample one of Mrs. Lindberg's delicious cakes, sit back, and tell us precisely what brings you here today. From the very beginning. Take your time, please.”

She did as he said, and sighed happily over the cream finger.

“I live over in Lambeth, sir”, she said, “and my husband Bert works on the underground. Our boys have all moved out now, which I suppose I should be grateful for, but I miss 'em. And to help make ends meet, I clean for two gentlemen. Mr. Riseley is a lawyer who has a small apartment in Waterloo, right by the big station, and I do mornings there, then afternoons I go to old Mr. Abrahams' place in the Temple. Beaconsfield Mews, a very nice area.”

“The Inns of the Court”, Sherlock mused. “Would that be Judge Methusaleh Abrahams, who retired recently?”

“That's him, sir”, she said, clearly pleased that her employer was known to us. “A lovely old man, he lives alone now his wife has passed, but his son visits from time to time. The place is too big for one person, but he doesn't want to move, and nor should he!”

“His son wishes him to move?” Sherlock asked.

“I think he suggested it once, but Mr. Abrahams said no”, she said. “The son – Mr. Jeroboam – is.... well, he's not a _bad_ man, I suppose, but I always thinks he's eying the place up for when the old man dies. But that's just my opinion, of course.”

“And most probably a correct one”, Sherlock smiled. “I take it that something has befallen your Mr. Abrahams?”

She blushed.

“It really wasn't my place, sir”, she said apologetically. “But about three months ago, I overheard Mr. Jeroboam talking to his father. Some dangerous criminal was about to be released, and Mr. Jeroboam was anxious lest the man try something. It was the judge that sent him down, see?”

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “But there was more, was there not?”

She nodded.

“Up till that day, Mr. Abrahams was fine”, she said. “But after his son told him about that man coming out, he seemed to.... well, to just fall in on himself. Since then, he's not been out to the garden at all, and it's a right mess, if you don't mind me saying so. I think he hardly ever uses the front rooms of the house, especially the main room which has a lovely big bay window that catches the sun. And he's got a gun, which I never saw until recently. I don't know if he's told his son about that, but it terrifies me.”

“He has not changed towards you?” Sherlock asked.

“Not as such, sir”, she said, “though he gets nervous very easily. I was delayed a quarter of an hour last Wednesday, the day there was that accident on the bridge, and I thought he might not let me in!”

Sherlock frowned.

“I do not suppose that you heard the name of the person who seems to have caused all this unrest?” he asked. 

“No”, she said, “but I remember the date. It was the second of October, the day after my eldest son's birthday. He'd brought the grandchildren round for the evening, and young Billy was talking about this newfangled ship that sails underwater, if you please!”

“That is excellent, Mrs. Minton!” Sherlock smiled. “Well done for remembering such an important detail. I can ask my police friends who it was that was sentenced by your judge and was released around just after that date. _Most_ observant of you.”

The lady blushed at his praise, and I was half afraid that she was going to start simpering at him.

“Thank you, sir”, she smiled. 

Sherlock;s smile faded, and he leant forward.

“I am going to investigate this case for you, Mrs. Minton”, he said gravely. “I find it intriguing, and as matters are quiet in my life at the moment, I am more than happy to do it merely to satisfy my own curiosity. But it is only fair to warn you that there may be an element of danger involved in this matter. If someone is watching the judge's house, then we must consider _your_ safety as much as his.”

“Mine, sir?” she said, wide-eyed. 

“Yours”, Sherlock said firmly. “You may choose not to continue working there, of course, and in the circumstances that would probably be advisable, but if you do stay on, you must ensure that you go there at the same time every day, and leave at the same time as well. If someone is watching the house, they will avoid acting around those times.”

“I promise, sir”, she said. “The judge – do you think you can save him?”

“I will do what I can”, Sherlock promised. 

+~+~+

“You do not seem very optimistic”, I observed, once the cleaner had gone.

“I am not”, he said ruefully. “The potential killer has all the advantages in a situation like this. Our best hope is to salvage what we can. But perhaps we can hope for a Christmas miracle.”

I could not know at that time that just such a miracle was approaching – and the agent of discovery would be my good self.

+~+~+

As I have said, my writings were such that I had no regular days at the surgery by this time in my career, although I had been there a lot this cold season because of both the outbreak of winter flu, and a doctor who had left London after coming into an inheritance. One of the ways in which I repaid the place's kindnesses over the years was that I still attended occasional fund-raising functions for them, much as I loathed such things. It was this altruism that was to yield an unexpected reward at Langstone House, the home of the truly frightful Mrs. Antonia de Courcey, one of the _grande dames_ of London society. She was so bad that Sherlock had flatly refused an invitation to come with me to the New Year's Eve Dance, citing a desperate desire to be as far away from Lady Antonia as was physically possible if only for the preservation of his ear-drums. The coward!

Though he had promised to make it up to me later, and that panties would be involved somewhere down the line. That would help me get through an awful evening, assuming that the anticipation did not kill me!

One of the people whom I often met at these functions was Doctor Owen Pardew, a dry if not sarcastic Welshman who had once worked at my practice and now tended to some of the most important people in the city. We would often discuss our patients – not by name of course – and laugh over the foolishness of humanity. 

“I had a most interesting case only last week”, he said. “Absolute confidence, of course.”

“Of course”, I promised. 

“In the Temple, a patient who is moderately wealthy has but one son to inherit”, he said. “However, he has recently had cause to doubt that the boy is acting in his best interests, pressuring him to sell the large house that he inhabits. It is in a most excellent location, and could be refurbished as a quality town-house for a considerable profit.”

“The patient has virtually no connection with the outside world except for this cleaning-lady, who comes in and 'does' for him every afternoon. Not one of my regulars; he used to have Claridge, who shot off to the Lakes over that inheritance he suddenly came into. This patient asked him to recommend someone else, and as we had studied at the same medical school, he suggested me.”

A faint memory stirred. 

“What was wrong with him?” I asked.

“Nerves”, Doctor Pardew said shortly. “He seemed absolutely petrified of something, but he would not say what. I did have a suspicion he is already taking some form of medication judging from his breath, but it turned out that that was his tea; he has some weird flavours of the stuff. He has a moderate heart condition, so a severe enough shock could kill him.”

“Is this fear a recent thing?” I asked.

“He says that it started two months ago”, Doctor Pardew said. “Nice old buffer.”

I made a mental note to tell Sherlock about this as soon as I got home.

+~+~+

I was able to slip away from the dance some little time before midnight, as I naturally wanted to welcome in the New Year with Sherlock. And in Sherlock.

He grunted pleasurably as I shifted inside of him. We had both come once already, but I was still hard and horny, and besides, I needed to tell him of my discovery. He lay back panting, running a lazy hand across my chest as I leaned over him.

“Very interesting”, he said. “Inspector Baldur is coming round tomorrow morning, so he may have some information as to our freed felon.”

I changed my angle and teased his prostate, eliciting a moan.

“Sherlock”, I said carefully, “you know that my birthday is coming up soon?”

He smirked.

“Yes”, he said. “Which one is it again? Forty-ten?”

I punished him by forcing his legs back and pummeling his prostate, causing him to come for a second time. I was close myself, but I held back for now.

“Don not be mean” I snipped. “And I do not want you to make a big thing of it!”

He looked at me through slitted eyes.

“So if I let you do whatever you want with me for that day”, he asked casually, “that would be enough?”

That was it. I came violently, panting hard at the sudden exertion.

“Hell, yes!” I bit out.

In retrospect, I should have suspected something from the pleased expression on his face, but what little remained of my mind was still trying to pick itself off of the floor. And failing miserably.

+~+~+

Inspector Baldur came round just after eleven the following morning. I felt sorry for him that he had to work on New Year's Day, but Sherlock had arranged with Mrs. Lindberg to bake two large chocolate cakes, one for the boys at the station and one for him and his ever-expanding family, so perhaps there were compensations.

“No doubt as to who your man is”, he said, accepting a coffee as he sat down by the fire. “Mr. Hubert Morris, known as 'Bruiser' to his few remaining friends. Old Abrahams sent him down back at the start of 'Eighty-Two for his part in the Liss House Robbery. Two members of the family killed, and he got twenty years.”

“A pity that they did not hang him”, I said grimly.

“Two of his colleagues went to the gallows”, the inspector said. “I telegraphed Henriksen when you asked me about the case, just to check the details. One of them killed poor Mr. Penruth, and the other struck the fatal blow that finished off his wife. Morris shot her first, but his lawyer managed to convince the jury that she was still living when Benton struck her – the medical evidence seemed to back him up - so your man avoided the drop, worse luck. A fourth member, Parkes, was jailed for seven years for aiding and abetting. He's kept his nose clean since getting out, much to the old man's surprise, and is doing well for himself over in Ireland.”

“How did you catch them?” Sherlock asked.

“They had no kids of their own, but it was the robbers' bad luck that the Penruths were looking after their nephew, Stephen”, he said. “Lad wrote down everything including descriptions, and once they had gone, even fenced off where the footprints were. They gave him witness protection, of course, and I suppose that he went abroad somewhere. The fewer people who know of such things, the better.”

I though abstractedly of Miss Warrender, who had helped us in our terrible struggle against the vile Professor Moriarty over a decade ago now, and who had had to leave England for Newfoundland. At least she was happy there; Sherlock had subsequently offered her the chance to come back once the whole thing had been sorted and the last of the Moriartys dispatched to Hell to join the Professor, but she had settled with her relatives out there and was happy to remain.

“And what about Mr. Morris?” Sherlock asked. 

“He has got a job down the docks, just a few miles from the judge's house”, the inspector said. “More ill luck than planning, I think; there's few places nowadays hat employ ex-cons outside the docks, who always need men. I have alerted the local station, and they said that they would increase patrols in the area, but we cannot watch the place round the clock. I am sending a man to speak with Morris' employers as well, just so he knows that we are keeping an eye on him.”

“That is good of you”, Sherlock smiled. “Did our mutual friend say what was his impression of the man? I always value his judgement.”

“He said that he thinks he might stay out of trouble this time”, the inspector said. “Morris had a young kid barely a year before he went inside, and they got given to his brother to raise. Young fellow's a bank clerk now, and wary about his reappeared father. I suppose that Bruiser might just keep his nose clean, though the general rule is once a crim, always a crim.”

“That”, Sherlock said, “is sadly true.”

+~+~+

The next development in the case caught us unaware a few days later, when Inspector Baldur called round unannounced. His first words were shocking.

“I thought you two gentlemen might care to know that someone nearly died in Beaconsfield Mews this morning.”

“Judge Abrahams?” Sherlock asked. The inspector shook his head. 

“No, His neighbour, Mr. Edward Smith.”

“How?” I asked.

“The doctor who examined him said that he suspected poison, but he could not be sure until further tests have been done”, the inspector said. “It may have been a case of mistaken identity, you see. The Smiths live at Maytree Cottage, and Mr. Abrahams lives at Maytree House. Possibly the attacker got the wrong man.”

“With poison?” Sherlock asked, dubiously. “That would be unlikely, unless....”

His voice trailed off, and he seemed to be thinking deeply. The two of us waited.

“Inspector”, Sherlock said quietly, “is there a _Mrs._ Smith?”

“No, she died some years back”, he said. “He's an invalid; his daughter looks after him now as she has a flat nearby in Chesham Lane. Why?”

“Where is she now?” Sherlock asked.

“She went with her father to hospital, but she has a job at a dress-shop near Bishopsgate”, he said. “I would guess that she is there now.”

“We need to see her”, Sherlock said urgently. “Do you have the name of the place?”

+~+~+

The general manager of Minniver's was a Mr. Charles Ratland, an unfortunate name as his features reminded me of Mr. Darwin's assertion that rats and humans shared a common ancestor millions of years back. Some, it seemed, has not evolved that much apart. He was most definitely not pleased to see us.

“This is a busy department store, gentlemen”, he said testily. “I cannot spare one of our girls for half an hour of idle chatter.”

I expected Sherlock to protest, but to my surprise he stood up.

“That is quite understandable”, he said. “I promise that we will trouble you no further. I merely wished to spare you the embarrassment of a visit from the local constabulary. Maybe several visits.”

“What do you mean?” he demanded. “What has that dratted girl gone and done?”

Sherlock fixed him with an icy glare. The man edged backwards. I would have done the same, facing that look.

“'That dratted girl', as you call her, has done nothing”, he said. “She may, however, be in possession of important information pertinent to a current investigation with which I am involved. But I understand your preference for official channels. And your customers will doubtless be reassured when four or five policemen descend to take her to the nearest station for several hours of questioning. And then return her here, most likely during the evening rush. The London 'bobby' can be a blunt instrument, and I personally would not want a whole number of them in a shop of mine, doubtless gawking at the customers, making them all wonder just who....”

He was scurrying for the door.

“I will send her in at once!” he squeaked, and was gone.

I chuckled.

+~+~+

Miss Pauline Smith would, I thought to myself, make a worryingly good murderess. She was cool, calm and collected, and seemed totally unperturbed by our visit.

“Yes, I did wonder if the events next door had something to do with poor father”, she said. “At least, once they had assured me that he would be all right, and that I could leave him. Old Mr. Abrahams is a nice man, and a good neighbour as well. I had taken to doing some shopping for him of late, as his son's visits were somewhat infrequent.”

“I would greatly value your opinion as to young Mr. Abrahams”, Sherlock said. “I have never met the gentleman myself.”

She smiled.

“I would not call him young”, she said, curling her lip slightly. “And it would be stretching matters to call him a gentleman.” She laid her well-kept hands on the table, and I could see the glint of a thin gold ring. “I am engaged to be married to a Mr. Albert Flint, who works at the bakery down the road, but despite knowing that fact, Mr. Abrahams made certain suggestions that were _most_ improper. He seemed to think that because he was a lawyer and my fiancé was only a baker, that that made his behaviour in some way acceptable.”

“How did you react to that?” I asked. She looked hard at me.

“He was unwise enough to do it whilst I was holding a knitting needle”, she said pointedly. “He got my point!”

I winced.

“Did you do all of Mr. Abrahams' shopping of late?” Sherlock asked.

“Everything except the tea”, she said. “He had a passion for the sort of rare brands that you cannot get in most shops, so his son would arrange for them to be shipped in once every two months.”

“The son did not bring them himself, then?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, he did; I believe he picked them up from a warehouse in the docks, about a mile away. They smelt somewhat, but I think from something the judge once said that his late wife had liked them, so possibly it was a way of remembering her.”

“Tell me about your father's poisoning”, Sherlock said.

“It was all very strange”, she said. “This morning, I called at his house, and brought some shopping for Mr. Abrahams as usual. After I checked on my father, who was fine, I went and knocked on the connecting door. As I am sure you are aware, Mr. Abrahams was increasingly worried as of late, so we had arranged four loud knocks - three, a pause and then a fourth - as a signal that it really was me at the door. He let me through, I put his items in his cupboards, then took my father's things back through the door. He immediately locked it behind me; I heard it click.”

“Why did you not unpack your father's items first?” Sherlock asked.

“I was running late”, she said, “and I did not want to worry Mr. Abrahams any more than was necessary. He preferred me to call at the same time each day when I brought him his things, you see. I spoke to his cleaner once, and she said that he nearly did not let her in the one time that she was late. A very nice lady.”

“That was considerate of you”, Sherlock said. “What happened next?”

“I came back and unpacked my father's things”, she said. “I did not have time to prepare him much in the way of lunch as we are having a stock-take soon, and I had said that I would come in early to help, so I made him some sandwiches and promised a cooked meal this evening. Mr. Ratland can be.... a little demanding.”

“We noticed!” I muttered. She smiled at me.

“As it turned out, it was Providence that I was so rushed, because five minutes after leaving, I realized I had left my pills at the house.”

“Your pills?” I asked. “You are on medication?”

“My doctor is treating me for a minor heart irregularity”, she said. “I ran back to the house, and arrived to find my father on the floor, thrashing and calling for help. It was my even greater luck that Doctor Bazenger, who lives the other side of Mr. Abrahams, was home at the time. He treated him whilst I summoned an ambulance. The doctors say that he should recover, but only because he was treated so quickly.”

Sherlock nodded.

“He had not opened your pills?” he asked. She shook her head.

“I always get the chemist to screw the lid on extra-tight”, she said. “At my own house, my neighbour's daughter sometimes comes in if her mother is late home from work, and I do not want to risk her getting hold of them. I only need one a day, and I can use the nutcrackers to open and close them. And my neighbour on the other side is a young fellow who works on the railways; he would open them for me if I needed him to, I am sure, or I could ask Albert.”

She looked at Sherlock thoughtfully.

“This has something to do with Mr. Abrahams' recent fears, has it not?" she said astutely. “What is going on?”

“I very much fear the answer is 'attempted murder'”, Sherlock said grimly. “And that we may be unable to prevent it.”

+~+~+

We were in a cab that was heading the mercifully short distance from Miss Smith's shop to Beaconsfield Mews. I say mercifully, because Sherlock had instructed the driver to go flat out, and the cab was rocking so violently that I was starting to feel nauseous. 

“What did you mean, 'too late'?” I asked, grabbing the strap as I was hurled into Sherlock round a particularly sharp turn. He, typically, seemed able to ignore the laws of momentum that were bouncing me around the cab like a rubber ball. “Mr. Smith survived.”

“I fully expect a second murder to be attempted before the day is out”, Sherlock said grimly. “If it has not been already.”

“What?” I gasped. “Oof!”

We had reached our destination, as was evident by the sudden stop that hurled me against the small door at the front of the cab. Sherlock threw a handful of change at the cabbie and shot up the path, leaving me trailing in his wake. He banged on the front door, and I held my breath.....

It was opened by Judge Abrahams, whom I recognized from the picture of him that I had seen in the _“Times”_. He looked at us both, and clearly knew immediately who we were.

“Are we too late?” Sherlock asked, to my surprise. The old man shook his head.

“You are too early”, he said. “It would be better if you came back later.”

“I am afraid that we cannot do that”, Sherlock said. “Justice must be seen to be done. You of all people should know that, your honour.”

For a moment the stand-off continued, but then the old man sighed and stood back. Sherlock hurried past him into the hallway, hesitated only briefly, then turned sharply and went through into the front room. I followed.

There was a body on the hearth-rug, a middle-aged man gasping for breath. He was clearly dying. I moved past Sherlock and knelt down beside him, but I could see that there was little that I could do. Whatever poison he had ingested was in his system now, and any attempt to expel it would do even more harm to the fellow.

“It would have been inadvisable to save that man's life anyway", Sherlock said dryly. I stared at him in confusion.

“What?” I asked. 

“That is Mr. Jeroboam Abrahams, son of the master of this house”, Sherlock said, glancing at the elderly judge. “He is charged with attempted patricide. Only a chance sequence of events exposed his evil intentions, and he has now met the same end that he intended for the man who helped give him life.”

The dying man's movements were rapidly growing weaker. Sherlock took a seat by the fire. The judge stood before him, close to his dying son. I was reminded of a courtroom, except that this time, the judge was not in control.

“Mr. Jeroboam Abrahams knows that a convicted felon, whom his father put away, is due out of jail”, my friend began in a soft voice. “He presses one more time to try to persuade his father to sell the house, but when he is refused, he puts his plan into action.”

“He is fortunate that, although he has deemed general shopping to be beneath him, he is still responsible for arranging the rare teas that his father likes. He doses each with a drug designed to cause paranoia, and makes sure his father knows that 'Bruiser' Morris is about to become a free man. The slow dosage will not kill his father, but it may succeed in driving him to sell up, and if it does not, then he can always add an extra dose one day. People will easily believe that the judge was driven to his death by fear.”

“Except that this morning, disaster strikes, courtesy of his own laziness”, Sherlock went on. “A neighbour's kind daughter brings in Mr. Abrahams' shopping, and inadvertently takes a package of the tea intended for him back into her own father's house. Presumably he must be more susceptible to the poison, but thanks to the blessed Providence, he is spared. Naturally, when young Mr. Abrahams learns of this, he realizes the risk of imminent exposure. He must strike fast, before the day is out.”

“He comes to the house with the fatal dose, determined to get his father to drink it. He offers to make the tea, and goes to the kitchen. Everything marches well, he believes.”

“But it is one of the truest tenets of crime that one should never underestimate one's victim.” Sherlock turned to the judge. “You guessed, when you heard of your neighbour's attack, as to what had happened, and therefore you knew that your son was behind it. I do not know what ruse you used, but you distracted your son in some way so that you could switch your cups. The result, we see before us.”

Old Mr. Abrahams bowed his head. 

“Judge, jury, executioner”, he said softly. “If only the fool boy had waited. I am surely not long for this world, but Jerry wanted everything now. Well, he will want no more.”

I sat there in shock. Sherlock rose to his feet.

“Mr. Methusaleh Abrahams”, he said heavily, “you have been found guilty of filicide, the killing of you own son. However, the fact that you acted in self-defence must be weighed in the balance. Your sentence is to live out your life in that knowledge, and to do what good you can with an estate that now has no-one left to inherit. May God have mercy upon your soul.”

The judge nodded. Sherlock helped me to my feet, and we left. The man on the hearth had stopped moving.

+~+~+

The reader will by now understand why this case was not published in my original canon. Apparently the Good Lord was in no hurry for the judge's company, as he lived on for a further four years. When he died most of his estate went to charity, but there were sizeable bequests to both Miss Smith (by then Mrs. Flint, with a son and daughter) and, much to her surprise, Mrs. Minton.

+~+~+

In our next case, a murder from the distant past resurfaces and claims a victim from the present. And there is a historical re-enactment that does not quite go to plan.


End file.
